


Watching You Without Me

by ScribbleWillow (Soul_in_the_Starlight)



Series: The Universe is Cracked [2]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Crack, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:12:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soul_in_the_Starlight/pseuds/ScribbleWillow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of time and space, pouring through her head, what is and what once was...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching You Without Me

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song of the same name by Kate Bush. Which was in some way the inspiration for how this turned out...

The Doctor has taken her to so many places since their encounter with the Silurians. Special places. Places that seemed almost tailor-made to her interests and sensibilities. It has been a most marvellous few… _days_? _Weeks_? _Months_? She can't even _begin_ to measure the length of time she's been away from her big, empty house.  
  
But the Doctor seems to tire quickly of day trips to beautiful places, and Amy has noticed him grow restless; the places they go to have become less about Amy's enjoyment, and more about his own.  
  
And here they are, on a jungle planet, ancient and primitive, unspoilt by any level of technology. Like Earth might have been long ago. Perhaps he'll take her back and show her, for comparison.  
  
He does that thing, that _interfering_ thing; where he brokers peace between warring factions, and everyone's in love with him and his mercy. Amy is soon bored of the celebratory feast; the Doctor has smoked a little too much peace pipe, engaging his sentimental pontiff mode. She slips away unnoticed towards the edge of the village.  
  
Wandering aimlessly, but always with an ear out for the festivities to guide her back to safety, Amy finds herself in some half hidden ruins. They are incongruous with what she has seen of the sentient beings and their level of progress. These speak of a civilisation come and gone, putting her in mind of the Aztecs and Mayans back on Earth. Finally, something to pique her interest!  
  
Amy pokes around the ruins in the dappled light of the early evening sun. Strange plants embrace the heavy stones, blooms the like of which she has never seen fill the air with exotic fragrance.  
  
 _Don't wander off_  
  
She looks round, startled, thinking the Doctor must have followed her. But she's alone, the noise from the village a distant, comforting hum. She must have imagined it, he says it so often, it must be so deeply ingrained in her subconscious now. And besides, she's not gone _too_ far...  
  
A few minutes of exploration lead her to a crumbling staircase. Amy looks up, and her breath hitches, she can see a light at the top, bright and strong, not the soft, patchy gold of the sunset through the trees.  
  
She really should turn back, make for the village, fetch the Doctor. But she's Amy, and she's bored; mysterious lights in the jungle promise excitement.  
  
So she trots up the stairs, counting them, one to twenty. At the top is a wide stone platform, a smooth, uneroded altar in the middle, and it's from this that the lights appears to shine.  
  
Amy approaches, the altar looks like its made of metal, something dark and heavy, immune to the ravages of time. The light spills from the top, and when she reaches it, her heart freezes in her chest; the altar is _cracked_.  
  
Cracked with that shape, that familiar, unwelcome shape; that ugly, crooked grin that tormented her childhood, leering at her from her bedroom wall.  
  
 _"How can it be here…?"_  
  
Her whisper dies on her lips as she steps forward. She knows what it did to those Clerics on the Byzantium, but that crack was enormous, they could have easily stepped through it. This crack was small, not quite the length of the narrow metal altar, and no wider than one of her fingers.  
  
The light shimmers as she steps even closer.  
  
 _Amy_  
  
She looks round, again expecting the Doctor to be standing there, but there's no-one, just the light breeze carrying alien birdsong towards her.  
  
Her head feels fuzzy, but the perfume from the surrounding blooms is thick in the humid air. She wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist, her hair damp, and she realises how hot she's now feeling. She's wearing a thin cotton tunic dress and leather Mary Janes. She can't get any cooler unless she strips.  
  
The crack sits, grinning, it's light so alluring, and Amy sits on the edge of the altar, a hand gingerly outstretched.  
  
 _Amy remember_  
  
Remember what? She feels confused. There's a voice, a familiar voice, but from where? It tugs at her belly, down _there_ , makes her heart race, her breathing deepens.  
  
Breezes stir her hair, caress her skin, cooling the sweat dampened fabric across her breasts. There's a feeling in the air, like static on a cold morning, and Amy closes her eyes, her other senses overwhelmed. She can almost taste the perfume, and the birdsong is louder, more lyrical. She feels damp between the thighs, the alien metal beneath her warming under her body heat. She feels confused, and yet aroused, the tingle between her legs now all too familiar. Behind her eyelids a face almost takes shape, and yet she can't quite see it clearly.  
  
She opens her eyes again, and finds herself on all fours on the altar, straddling the crack. The breeze lifts the hem of her thin dress, pushing it up over her hips, and the strange electrical feeling tickles against the dampness in her knickers. Amy moans, her voice deep with desire; this is weird, this is scary and its… _thrilling_.  
  
She pushes herself up off her hands, and pushes down her knickers, lifting one leg then the other to slide them off, casting them aside. The energy from the crack pulses beneath her, reaching out, catching the soft hairs between her thighs, caressing the lips spread open above it.  
  
Amy leans forward again, resting on one hand, the other sliding under her dress, between her legs, into the wetness, searching for that little nub of hidden flesh. Her fingers find it, sliding over it, slick with moisture, those familiar jolts of delicious pleasure making her gasp, making her hips move back and forth.  
  
But it's not enough, she feels empty inside, she needs the intensity of that first push that fills. She growls in frustration and moves so that she properly straddles the altar, sitting astride it, legs spread wide, her slippery lips pushed against the crack. She braces her feet on the crumbling stone beneath, and rocks her pelvis against the warm metal, the pressure against her cunt welcome, but still lacking what she wants to feel. She slips her hand down there again, spreading herself wide, hoping the energy from the crack beneath will somehow fulfil her.  
  
Fingers rubbing and slipping inside herself, hips rocking harder, the crack in the altar spilling out tendrils of light. They snake along her skin, lifting hairs, buzzing with an energy she can't understand, and yet by which she desires to be taken. Amy slides forward, her wetness lubricating the metal beneath her, and she lays down on her back along the length of the crack, head hanging over the edge of the altar, damp hair hanging down amongst the dust and leaves on the stone floor beneath. The energy from the crack runs along the length of her spine, igniting nerves, sending crashing waves of almost painful pleasure throughout her body, her brain close to overload.  
  
The ribbons of light from the crack continue to seep out from underneath her now writhing body, her back arching, hips lifting to meet what she desperately seeks. They encircle her legs, pulling them wider apart, slide under the rumpled fabric of her dress, caressing, prickling; invading, yet tender.  
  
 _Amy_  
  
The distant memory of a face behind her eyes again, the sound of a voice, the touch of warm skin and the achingly slow, sweet pressure of hardness pushing inside her. The streams of energy fully surround her, binding her limbs, spreading her wide as lost echoes of a lover she can't name gently invade her willing body.  
  
Amy squirms and thrashes, she feels full and yet empty, afraid and yet thrilled. She cries out as the hidden memories pour forth and take shape inside her, filling her, stretching her, feeding her desire.  
  
She wants to cry out a name, but there is none to cry. Teenage exploration doesn't belong to what she feels here and now, faces don't fit the feelings, names don't shape her tongue.  
  
The fullness, the deepness, the relentless rhythm, harder and faster, her nerves are on fire. Her hands held fast, sweat drenched dress clinging to her helpless body as the pressure builds, she wails loudly; lost  and afraid in the bonfire of feelings she can no longer control, her sudden orgasm so welcome a release, but so unexpected in intensity; she loudly screams a name, forming the word with no understanding.  
  
" ** _Rory!_** "  
  
She doesn't hear it past the roar of energy as the crack suddenly unbinds her, energy recoiling at the sound it has torn from her throat, dissipating quickly, sealing the crack with a metallic clang, leaving her suddenly empty again, as if all the air has been sucked from the world.  
  
**  
Amy wakes.  
  
It's night now, the giant moon overhead a vast crescent in the sky. Her dress is rearranged more modestly, and she's lying on her side, as she does in bed. The Doctor looks at her kindly, saying nothing; he strokes her hand as he helps her sit up.  
  
Still wordlessly, he helps her down the stone steps, an arm at her waist, perhaps protectively, and they return to the TARDIS where he makes sure she showers, and helps her to bed.  
  
She will not remember. And he will not tell her.  
  
He will not tell her that her screams of pleasure as she burnt up the fires of creation in her belly, drew him to that place where he found her, blazing like a phoenix in the flames of all she'd lost, the name of her missing lover echoing round the crumbling ruins as she came.  
  
And nor will he tell her how the memory of it will serve his own lonely pleasure.  
  
For a long time to come.


End file.
